Chapter 9 Nick #2
When my mom walked off, I zeroed in on Diablo.
He was twirling pasta like he had no care in the damn world, dragging his bread through the olive oil like he belonged here—like this place didn’t make my blood boil with the sight of him.
He didn’t see me coming. I stood right next to his table, heart pounding like war drums in my chest.
“Diablo. So nice of you to come to my restaurant. I’m honored,” I said, my voice dripping with venom.
He took his time chewing, then licked his lips. Slow. Calculated. Like he wanted me to swing first. His eyes rose to meet mine, and I swear I could smell the rot rolling off his soul.
“Look at you, rookie,” he said, that smirk curving his mouth like a scar. “Figured you’d be the last person I’d see here. Don’t most entrepreneurs have places to be? Money to spend, women to fuck?”
“I’m not most business owners.” I scanned him up and down. He was bulked up—like prison had sculpted him into something harder, meaner. A beast fed on rage and time.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Eating.” He gestured to his plate like this was some casual lunch.
His teeth weren’t as white as I remembered.
His eyes weren’t just dark—they were hollow.
Soulless. “Thought I’d have myself a nice meal on the day I got out of prison.
And what better way to celebrate than eating at my friend’s place? ”
Friend. That word tasted like bile in my mouth.
“Wanted to see how Mr. Pretty Boy was holding up,” he added, his accent sharpening my name like a blade. “You’ve done well. Got the money, the travel, the upscale kitchen. Mommy must be proud. And hats off to the chef. This pasta’s damn good.”
“Thank you. I’ll let the chef know,” I ground out, fists clenched at my sides.
“But then again,” he said, swirling his wine, “anything tastes better than rot and cockroach stew.”
“Let’s cut the bullshit. What do you want, and why are you really here?”
He forked another bite into his mouth, chewing like it was performance art. Then, with exaggerated flair, he took a long drink of wine and swallowed.
It took everything in me not to snap his neck across the table.
“Just wanted to catch up, bro. Like old times. How’s Sophia? I saw she’s working the front.”
“She’s fine. Thanks for asking, bro.” I spit the last word like broken glass.
He leaned back, eyes glinting with something cruel. “She was always hot. Even back then. But that blonde you had in your car earlier? Dios mío. She’s a fucking knockout. You wouldn’t mind putting in a good word for me, huh? It’s been a while since I felt a woman’s walls clench around my—”
I slammed my hand down on the table. Crack.
Silverware jumped. The room spun around me in a haze of red.
“Don’t fucking finish that sentence if you know what’s good for you. And keep my sister’s name out of your mouth.” My voice came out low, dangerous, a loaded gun with the safety off.
He chuckled, deep and deliberate—like he wanted me to lose control. “Always the protector. Momma raised you soft.”
“But why so testy about the blonde?” he pressed, leaning in. “You fucking her?”
The words hit like a gut punch. My fists curled tighter, knuckles aching.
“I’m going to count to three,” I said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “And if you
don’t tell me what you want, I’ll call the cops and make damn sure you never step foot in here again.”
His eyes shifted. Something flickered there—something feral.
Then I saw it.
The glint of a gun tucked at his back.
“You threatening me with the cops again?” he asked, his voice edged with mockery.
“No,” I said, deadly calm. “I’m telling you what’s going to happen. Just like last time. That’s not a threat—it’s a promise.”
His grin spread like a bloodstain. “I wish I could believe you. But I’m not gonna be the only one paying this time.”
His eyes darkened until they looked black. Not human.
“Then name your price,” I said, jaw locked.
“Hmm… Let’s say a thousand dollars for every year I sat in that hellhole.”
Fifteen grand. I could figure that out. I just needed time.
“Done.”
He raised a brow, then leaned in, his voice like poison in my ear. “You didn’t let me finish. I won’t be finding work anytime soon—felons don’t exactly get warm welcomes. So let’s double it.”
My blood roared in my ears. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I hissed.
“From that fresh-shaved face and fancy-ass cologne, I’d say you’ll figure it out. Because if you don’t? I’ve got men. And they’ll paint these walls red. Remember what I taught you, Niccolo?”
I stared at him, fists trembling.
His grin widened, eyes glittering. “People with nothing to lose are the most dangerous.”
He stood, clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder like we were old friends.
“My, my. The military did you good. No longer the scrawny kid I met at that house party.”
He threw on his jacket and downed the last of his wine. Sniffed the air.
“Damn, it feels good to be home,” he said, and walked off like he didn’t just rip the floor out from under me.
“Fucking asshole,” I muttered, grabbing his plate with shaking hands and heading for the kitchen.
When I made it out to my truck, I was surprised to see Mel still in the passenger seat. Legs propped on the dash, jaw tight, phone pressed to her ear. She wasn’t just talking.
She was arguing. And with every step I took, her voice got louder—stronger—like a woman who had reached her limit and was done taking shit from anyone.
“Figure it out. There has to be something you can do,” she says.
I open the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. She was too agitated even to notice I'm back in the car.
“How would I know my friend would go and get pregnant the same time I scheduled this months ago.”
Silence.
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one wants to go to Vegas when they are pregnant and can’t drink.”
She finally looks at me—acknowledges I exist—with a sharp roll of her eyes. I can’t tell if it’s meant for the person on the phone… or me.
“Blah blah blah. Ya got it. I’m fucked, thanks for nothing.”She hangs up without ceremony and tosses her phone into her purse like it personally betrayed her.
“This is why they say no good deed goes unpunished,” she mutters, dragging a hand down her face as she slumps back in the seat with a sigh that feels like it’s been trapped in her chest for years.
“Are we going?” Her head swivels toward me.
“Yeah… is everything alright?”
“Fine,” she snaps. “Just stuck with a trip by myself.”
“A trip. By yourself?”
She huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Got two tickets to Vegas—a surprise for Abigail. But turns out I got the surprise. She’s pregnant.
Can’t go. Can’t refund the tickets. So, I’m screwed.
And it sucks because I could really use that money right now.
Guess this is what it’s like to have money problems.”
“You mean your parents’ money?”
She shoots me a glare that could cut through glass.
“Why don’t you just go alone?” I ask, shrugging.
“By myself?”
“Yeah. Go. Have fun. It’s Vegas. You’ll find something to do. Men to chase.”
“First of all, I don’t chase men. And last time I checked, Vegas costs money. You know, to actually have fun.” She leans back again, hair twisting around her finger like she’s trying to distract herself from unraveling.
“Don’t your parents have a shit ton of money?”
“Yeah, but I can’t ask them.”
“Why not?”
“Because my mom and dad are going through something and she’s got enough on her plate. And I’d rather not ask my stepdad. He…” She falters, staring out the window like the silence can explain it better than she can.
“He makes you pay. One way or another. Nothing’s free in this life.”
“So ask your mom.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“She’s your mom. How hard can it be?”
She turns slowly, eyes burning with something between disbelief and exhaustion. Her look says it loud and clear: You really don’t get it, do you?
“Can we just go? I’m not in the mood to argue, Nick.”
I grip the wheel and fire up the engine. “Same. Sure thing, princess.”
“Stop at a liquor store on the way,” she says, reclining like the car seat’s her escape hatch.
“You sure that’s a good idea? You just found out you’re diabetic.”
“I think it’s a great fucking idea,” she says, voice drenched in false cheer.
“You trying to die or something?”
“Hey, no one gave you shit for joining the army. So don’t give me shit. We’re all gonna die someday, and I guarantee you—I’m just as much a survivor as you are.”
She keeps saying that.
Survivor.
Like she’s trying to prove it to herself as much as she is to me, I want to press, to crack her open and see what’s bleeding underneath, but I let it go. Not because I don’t care—because I do. But right now, I’m not ready for a fight, and she doesn’t need another one.
“I’ve got vodka at my place. If you’re gonna drink, do it there. I still think it’s a bad idea, but at least you won’t drink yourself into a stupor by the lake.”
“What are you, my dad?”
“No. Your mentor. Because you need one.”
But what she really needed was a friend. And it was obvious she never had one—Not because she didn’t want any, but because somewhere along the way, someone taught her no one was safe. And I wasn’t leaving until I figured out who did.